


Haven't You People Ever Heard Of Closing a Goddamn Door

by APortableBanquet (peregrinefalcon)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Borderline crack, Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Fluff, I'm sorry John, M/M, Moriarty Is A Dick, Mrs. Hudson knows everything, Sharing Clothes, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock and Jim make plans, everyone bullies John, falling asleep together, offscreen ninja!Moran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 10:40:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5964277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peregrinefalcon/pseuds/APortableBanquet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes John wonders what he's done to deserve a flatmate like Sherlock Holmes.<br/>Meanwhile, sociopaths just wanna have fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haven't You People Ever Heard Of Closing a Goddamn Door

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to @corvusTempus beta-ing!

“…  And what do you think of this offer? I mean, it’s not a very profitable one, but it’s interesting …”

 

“Yes … I’ve seen people asking to disappear themselves, but to want _someone else_ to disappear completely, without a trace in human history, that is certainly something. I find it evocative of …”

 

“… The Egyptians? Akhenaten and Amun? That came back and bit him in the arse.”

 

“Hatshepsut as well.”

 

“Of course, how could I forget.”

 

“But what’s in it for me?”

 

“Well, I could leave an unidentifiable corpse.”

 

“But wouldn’t I already know who that corpse is? After all, you’ve been letting me read your emails.”

 

“Not necessarily. I mean, I have to erase other people who knew this person, right? It could be anyone … wouldn’t that be fun?”

 

“Excellent.”

 

“Honey, it’s so indecent to see what a good humour mass murder puts you in. Six million pounds, though. That’s a bit stingy. After all, I have to kill a good number of people, _and_ alter government records …”

 

“Are you saying that you can’t do it?”

 

Jim lifted his head from Sherlock’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. His black eyes were made translucently brown by the lazy afternoon sunlight that poured into 221B through a sliver of a slit in the dark curtains, and by the sudden possibility of somewhat of a “point” to this all.

 

“Is that a _challenge_?”

 

Sherlock seemed indifferent, but Jim could see how his eyes were dilating with excitement and impropriety.

 

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

 

“Hmm,” Jim reached for his lukewarm mug of Darjeeling, its musky astringency improved into sweetness by the cooling temperature, and muted by the addition of milk. The floral aroma also grew stronger with the decreasing warmth. Jim found that he didn’t dislike the taste of cold tea so much.

 

Sherlock looked at him shrewdly, trying to divine Jim’s decision. After all, his schedule for the next month revolved around Jim. He needed to precisely plan his social engagements, just so that they happen to fall around the same time Jim was doing something delightfully more engaging, so Sherlock could pull out the “I have something important/vital/better to do” card and piss off some more people he didn’t care about.

 

“I’ll sleep on it,” Jim decreed, resting his head back against Sherlock’s shoulder. He minimized the window as he moved on to the next offer. For Sherlock, that was as good as a yes. Feeling a bit indulgent, he laid his head on top of Jim’s.

 

If Jim had noticed, he didn’t comment on it. “The standard inheritance murder, bo-ring. I’ll get Sebastian to arrange something. Can’t be bothered myself.”

 

“Do you ever say no?”

 

“No,” Jim answered cheekily.

 

Sherlock snorted. “But no, really, do you?”

 

“Honestly, no.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Sherlock, don’t you ever feel a bit sorry for these people? They’re so weak, helpless, that they have to turn to _me_ to solve their problems. It’s quite pitiful. I never thought my particular, ah, _repertoire_ would be _good_ for anything, but if anyone needed my help, I wouldn’t deny them, really …”

 

“Since when were you a murder-philanthropist?” Sherlock smirked at the foolish idea, his grin twisting his face into an endearing expression of amusement. “Admit it, James, you do this because it encourages your megalomania-”

 

“You’re the one to talk!” Jim exclaimed defensively, although he didn’t deny it. “How dare you shame me for my motivations! After all, the reason why _you’re_ doing what _you_ do is precisely because _I’m_ doing _my_ job-”

 

“Oh, so you’re doing this for _me_?” Sherlock couldn’t stifle a snort. “God, Jim, you’re _so_ selfless, killing people for _me_ , I’m so _touched_ -”

 

“Honey, don’t taunt me so, that is _precisely_ what I have been doing for the _past twenty years_ -”

 

Sherlock lost it. James _Moriarty_ , a self-sacrificing _saint_. He stumbled with sniggers, which then hastened into snorts, and finally he couldn’t suppress the guffaw anymore. Jim laughed alongside him, shaking with near-sobs, trying not to spill the tea on Sherlock’s dressing gown.

 

The door downstairs clinked as a key fumbled in its lock, and Jim stopped laughing, or smiling, for that matter. “John’s home,” he remarked. “I should probably go and hide in your bedroom and escape through the window.”

 

Sherlock curled his arm around Jim’s shoulder more tightly. “No, it’s been a while since I’ve given John a good scare.”

 

“God, you’re the worst flatmate,” he flashed Sherlock a toothy, wicked smile as he snuggled up against Sherlock, and for good measure, propped up his socked feet against the coffee table.

 

John’s disciplined footfalls edged closer and closer to the flat, and both Jim and Sherlock resisted the urge to glance at the doorway in anticipation. Instead, they pretended to be engrossed with whatever was on Jim’s laptop, which currently was an email asking for assistance in a jewel theft. A blue ruby? Sherlock’s never heard of one before …

 

“Sherlock, I ran into Lestrade on the way to Tesco’s, he told me to-” By the way his sentence choked in his throat and he audibly stopped respiring, Jim could tell that John saw him stretched lazily across the furniture and, partially, his flatmate.

 

“Hi,” Jim waved at John with his mug, his voice high and songlike, in his signature round, Irish accent. He felt like he sounded particularly charming, but John was clearly agog and aghast, with his face blanching then darkening, and mouth agape like an actual, real goldfish.

 

“Sherlock,” John’s voice gained a dangerous edge, “pray tell _why_ is _Moriarty_ in our flat? _How_ did he get in?-”

 

“The door was open,” Sherlock answered, pretending to be far more interested in whatever was on Jim’s screen than John’s reaction, but up close, Jim could tell that Sherlock was trying very hard not to break character, with his lips pressed tightly together and face angled downwards so he could bury his face in Jim’s hair whenever to muffle his laughter.

 

“ _The bloody door was open_ -” John took a moment to press his fingers to his temples and gather himself before he punched a hole into the nearest wall or item of furniture around him. “Sherlock, haven’t you ever heard of closing the _goddamned_ door-”

 

“He would’ve gotten in anyway,” Sherlock sipped his tea coolly, though Jim could see his hidden smile curling along the rim of his mug. _Oh, you bastard._

 

“Darling, how could you throw me under the bus like that?” Jim’s face stretched into his classic mock-surprise expression, and he saw Sherlock subtly bite the ceramic in an effort not to laugh.

 

John was positively livid. “Moreover, why is he wearing _your_ dressing gown, Sherlock?” Indeed, Jim was wearing Sherlock’s dark blue and burgundy tartan dressing gown over his deep navy Westwood slacks and white Spencer Hart shirt. Sherlock himself was slouching in pajama pants, an old t-shirt, and the striped blue dressing gown.

 

“Well, he told me to make myself at home, so I did,” Jim offered an answer, and took a sip from his mug.

 

“What are you doing here?” _Finally, the man addresses me, myself_. Jim put down his mug to answer, but Sherlock beat him to it.

 

“We’re making plans.” _Which is not exactly a lie_ , Sherlock thought to himself. _No, it isn’t a lie at all_.

 

John’s small body was shaking in rage and incomprehension. Here was his flatmate and his flatmate’s nemesis, curled around one another like any ordinary couple, drinking cold tea and clearly in on something that John was definitely not in on.

 

“What plans?"

 

“I’m providing him with superior distractions to alleviate his boredom and to excuse him from any undesired social interactions,” Jim explained helpfully, but it was clear that John did not appreciate his helpfulness.

 

“How long has this been an arrangement?” He interrogated Sherlock, correctly surmising that this had indeed been going on for some while.

 

“Some time,” Sherlock admitted. “You can ask Mrs. Hudson. She probably knows the specific duration, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

 

“ _Mrs. Hudson knows_?” John’s voice palpitated with anger. “And you didn’t bother to tell _me_?”

 

“Well, if I told you, you would have exploded in my face, gone on ranting about irresponsibility, and threatened to lock me up in my room like a misbehaving child-”

 

“-’S not like that would have stopped me though, I could’ve easily broken into his bedroom anytime, like I have-”

 

“- And then threatened to permanently maim me, or worse, kill me.” Sherlock finished.

 

“ _No I wouldn’t_ ,” John was dangerously close to shouting.

 

Jim raised his eyebrows. “Oh yeah, you would.”

 

John glared at Jim, and opened his mouth to redirect his ire towards the other guilty party -

 

“John, do you mind?” Sherlock looked at him directly for the first time since the conversation started. “We’re in the middle of something here.”

 

If it were possible, Jim wouldn’t be surprised to see John just _implode_ upon the spot. He admitted to himself, he _did_ feel a bit sorry for the ex-army doctor. Sherlock was a _complete arse_. And he loved every minute of it.

 

“Do _I_ mind? DO _I_ MIND? Sherlock Holmes, you are-”

 

Jim let his legs gracefully drop from the coffee table. “Sherl, honey, maybe it’s time I left. Clearly, now's not a good time -”

 

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock curled his fingers into Jim’s straight, black hair, slightly messing up Jim’s immaculately arranged hair.

 

Jim propped his legs up again. “Well, if you insist.”

 

“Please,” Sherlock looked at John through the corner of his eye. “Just another while longer. We’re almost done.”

 

“ _Are we_?” Jim looked at him flirtatiously. Sherlock smiled at him, charmed, and Jim could sense John suppressing a very strong urge to throw himself out of the nearest window.

 

Sherlock’s phone _ping!_ ed and Jim could see that it was a text from Molly. _I have the fingers ready. Molly, smiley face_.

 

“John, would you mind making a trip to the morgue for me? Molly says she’s got the fingers I asked for two days ago.”

 

“ _Why don’t you go yourself?_ ” John seethed.

 

“As you can see,” Sherlock nodded demonstratively at his pajamas, “I’m rather indecent at the moment.”

 

“Then get _dressed_ , God.”

 

“But I don’t want to.”

 

“I’ll get it for you,” Jim made to leave again, setting his mug down on the coffee table and reaching for his jacket, which was draped across the armrest .

 

“No,” John's voice was adamant, clearly meant to be intimidating.

 

“What are you saying?” Jim furrowed his brows in confusion.

 

“No, you are not coming back into this flat.”

 

“You can’t stop me.” Jim’s voice lowered, the lilting quality all but gone, the rumbling in his throat at a near simmer, dangerous.

 

Mrs. Hudson called from underneath the flat. “John, Mycroft is on the phone. He’s asking for you. Wants you to ‘go to the club,’ he says. Won’t tell me which. I suppose you’d know which one he means. He says he needs you urgently, dear.”

 

“Would you be so kind as to pick up the fingers on the way back from Mycroft’s, John?”

 

John threw him one more deathly glare as he huffily made for the door. “Your brother will hear of this,” he warned, “this isn’t over, Sherlock.” He slammed the previously open door shut as he exited the flat.

 

As soon as they heard the distant click of the front door close downstairs, Sherlock and Jim abandoned themselves to the painful throes of laughter, tears streaming down their faces, cheeks reddening with the lack of oxygen from incessant guffaws and giggles.

 

“God, you’re the _worst_ ,” Jim wiped his tears on the sleeve of Sherlock’s dressing gown. It left a comet-shaped, dark patch on the silk.

 

“You’re not any better.”

 

“Yeah, well _you_ live here, not I.”

 

“That’s debatable.”

 

“True,” Jim took another sip of tea, and scrolled down to read the rest of the email.

 

“You know, that thing, with the blue ruby thing, that sounds interesting.”

 

“Don’t worry, honey, you know I never say no. Expect something coming up in your schedule soon.”

 

The torpid, heavy sunlight was beginning to sag under the weight of the late afternoon. It pooled into the room like lazy blood on warm concrete. Jim and Sherlock basked in the moment, too comfortable to be possible. Watching the dust dance in the air, they wished that this instant would last forever.

 

\----

 

When John came home, he found Sherlock and Jim asleep on the sofa. The computer was nowhere to be found.

 

He sauntered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He put the fingers in it, and took out a cold can of beer. Casting one last chastising glace and the two slumbering figures, he made for his own room to escape the horrors of the day and wash everything away with a nice, cold alcoholic beverage.

 

He decided to leave them out there, because if they woke up with cricks in their necks, it was _their_ fault for falling asleep like that, necks bending like that and heads overlapping and such. Besides, they fucking deserved it.

  
Though he couldn’t resist slamming the door for good measure.

**Author's Note:**

> If you were wondering where the computer went, it was Sebastian.
> 
> And kudos to you if you got the blue ruby reference ;)


End file.
